This weekend, Fidel Castro, Cuba’s longtime dictator, died at the age of 90. And with his death came a stream of messages from world leaders, some expressing the loss of a friend to their nation (Russia, China), others prefaced their positive comments by referring to him as a “controversial” figure.

Trudeau did not do himself any favors politically with this statement, without a doubt. But he did help remind me, as a Christian, of the bankruptcy of relativism as a worldview. It’s a worldview that demands everything be shades of gray. It eschews black and white—the idea that any action or word can be definitively right or wrong is, simply, wrong.2 So what’s wrong for you might not be wrong for me, but might be appropriate given my cultural background and context.

This is what Trudeau illustrated in his statements. Castro was a family friend, a pallbearer at his father’s funeral—an experience entirely removed from any of the man’s actions as leader of Cuba. His take reflects that experience, which is why it is wildly different than that of the average person (or, for that matter, many Cubans who lived under his regime).

But the response is what surprised me, and actually gave me a little hope. It reminded me that, even in our darker days, human beings are still image-bearers of God. Despite our repression and rejection of the truth about God, despite many of us holding to some form of relativism as a worldview, when we’re confronted with it as we were in this weekend, we can’t help but balk. In this case, it was to say, “No, the man wasn’t simply controversial; he was a perpetrator of great evil.”

And in doing so, we reject practically that which we profess to believe philosophically. We can’t help doing this. God hasn’t made us as people capable of living exclusively in shades of gray. He made us moral creatures. He hardwired us to recognize right and wrong and to know the ultimate source of truth.

And so this brings me back to my little bit of hope. My hope is that as we continue to see the purveyors of these worldviews trip over themselves, people will grow more and more disillusioned with them. They will see the Emperor has no clothes, as it were. I desperately want that to happen because, as Christians, we have what they need. Something better, fuller, and richer than the nothing relativism has to offer.

We can show them Jesus, the one who not only knows the truth but is the Truth.

When I was a kid, I was warned never to breathe in the exhaust that came from our car. It was poisonous, I was told. So, for weeks after being told this, I would hold my breath for as long as I could whenever I was walking around our car while it was running. Eventually, I stopped doing that because I realized I wasn’t dying being around the car, but I was getting kind of light-headed from holding my breath so long. What I later learned was that carbon monoxide poisoning didn’t come from breathing in trace amounts periodically. No, the danger was prolonged exposure.

We’re in a weird place in the world right now—one that every day, as I look at my Twitter feed and Facebook updates, makes me wish today were the day the sky would split in two, Jesus would ride in on a white horse and save the day. Chances are, today is not that day, though. At least, not if you’re reading this. (And if it is, you’ve got way more important things to do than read it since it doesn’t matter anymore.)

Why are we in a weird place? Because we’ve poisoned ourselves. We’ve been living and breathing a poisonous worldview for decades, one that has stunted our ability to think rationally: relativism.

Relativism is a logically incoherent (and practically inconsistent) worldview that asserts that there are no absolute truths (beyond that one). It, essentially, advocates the sort of lifestyle the Israelites were described as living at the end of the book of Judges: “Everyone did what was right in his own eyes” (21:25). It’s a worldview that says truth is what we make it. What’s true for me may not be true for you, so how can anything really be said to be wrong? Except for saying there is such a thing as an objective standard of truth, of course.

This is the worldview that has brought us to the brink of madness, in virtually every western nation (perhaps most noticeably as you watch the political debates in America). But where does it end? Do people eventually just snap out of the haze? Will we one day wake up and realize we’ve been wandering around like a frat boy with alcohol poisoning, put down the bottle and then clean up the mess? No. Relativism doesn’t lend itself to the sort of introspection such a response would require. Instead, it will lead to something far more terrible:

The formula is simple: when relativism holds sway long enough, everyone begins to do what is right in his own eyes without any regard for submission to truth. In this atmosphere, a society begins to break down. Virtually all structure in a free society depends on a measure of integrity—that is, submission to the truth. When the chaos of relativism reaches a certain point, the people will welcome any ruler who can bring some semblance of order and security. So a dictator steps forward and crushes the chaos with absolute control. Ironically, relativism—the great lover of unfettered freedom—destroys freedom in the end.1

For decades, we’ve been breathing in the poison of relativism. And the madness will not end with us snapping ourselves out of the haze. For in our stupor, we have declared war on truth itself. And things may well get far worse before they get better. But even so, as Christians, we ought not despair. For we know truth does exist—and we know who is the embodiment of truth. We know that there is a Creator who will judge all according to their deeds and that no wrong will be overlooked. We know that even as politicians thumb their noses at the value of human beings—endorsing the indiscriminate murder of babies or suggesting war crimes make for a legitimate foreign policy—that they are like the dew on the grass: they are here and will be gone before the morning is through. But Christ will stand forever.

So while we wait, while we are frustrated, while we are tempted to lose hope, we need to remember this. And we need to push back against the darkness of relativism. We remind all around us of the truth—that there is truth, point them to the one who declares it. The one who is coming soon to make all things new. And to him we cry, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus.”

One of the common features of Jesus’ teaching ministry was his use of parables, stories that illustrated spiritual and moral lessons. One of the things that’s particularly worth noting is the “why” of His use of parables.

Today, in some circles, it’s very fashionable to speak and write in very ambiguous terms. To “embrace the mystery” of Christianity and leave things kind of… mysterious.

But is that the point of teaching? Was that what Jesus was doing when He taught in parables?

Take a look at Matthew 13:10-17 for a second:

Then the disciples came and said to him, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” And he answered them, “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. For to the one who has, more will be given, and he will have an abundance, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. This is why I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand. Indeed, in their case the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled that says:

“‘You will indeed hear but never understand, and you will indeed see but never perceive. For this people’s heart has grown dull, and with their ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they have closed, lest they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears and understand with their heart and turn, and I would heal them.’

But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear. For truly, I say to you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, and did not see it, and to hear what you hear, and did not hear it.

In the beginning of this passage, Jesus’ disciples asked that very question. They said to Jesus, “why do you speak to them [the crowds who came to see Jesus] in parables?”

They wanted to know: Why did He not speak plainly to the crowds? Why was He so mysterious?

And Jesus answered. “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. For to the one who has, more will be given, and he will have an abundance, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. This is why I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand.”

So here’s what He says: Jesus tells them, “I speak in parables because the truth of the kingdom of heaven is not theirs to know. They think they see the truth of My kingdom, but they don’t. They think they understand, but they can’t. If they did, they might turn and repent.”

His parables had a two-fold effect:

They hardened the hearts of some who heard

They caused others to seek out Jesus to ask Him what He meant

The interesting thing is that when people came to Him and asked Him to explain, as the disciples did, He was happy to oblige. Indeed, every time they asked by His disciples what He meant, He patiently explained. Jesus was never mysterious for the sake of being mysterious. He didn’t speak in riddles and vagaries to create a mystique. As I wrote last week, God is not a beat poet.

Jesus’ parables were not meant to be a stumbling block for His disciples; all things were revealed to them by Him. Similarly, the role of the Christian teacher is to patiently explain all that has been revealed with gentleness and humility. If we are going to follow Jesus’ example in teaching, we ought to be careful to not embrace mystery for the sake of being mysterious.